


Of Curse Scars and Christmastime

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nineteen years later, Potter’s scar is acting up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Curse Scars and Christmastime

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Secret Snarry Swap 2015. Original Prompt: #34: “Harry’s first Christmas after the divorce.”

  
** Of Curse Scars and Christmastime **  


Potter waits until office hours are over before coming down to the dungeons. The man’s been teaching at Hogwarts for years now, but Severus still finds his presence slightly disarming.

Severus’s office is closed and warded, and he can feel the press of Potter’s magic against his before he even knocks on the door. It’s disquietingly familiar, tinged with dark, and it makes Severus shiver. After a moment, Severus says “Office hours are over for the evening. But I’m certain you know that, Mr. Potter.” Still he raises a hand, feels his wards fall away. The door opens and Potter nods, stepping inside.

The man looks exhausted. Dark circles purple his eyes and his perpetually unruly hair is even more dishevelled than usual. It looks as if Potter has spent the entire evening running his hands through it. “I’m sorry to bother you,” Potter says, “but there is something you have to see.”

Severus hears the unease in his voice—an undercurrent of panic that sets his teeth on edge. He sets his quill down and stands, not bothering to replace the lid on his ink well. “Come inside,” he says, motioning to the door at the back of the office, and Potter follows him into his rooms without hesitation.

He’s been here before. There were months after Potter starting teaching when he was down here nearly every night. But it’s been over a year since he’s decided to grace the dungeons with his presence.

Severus’s rooms are small—much smaller than Potter’s in the West Tower—but they are comfortable. In nearly three decades of living at the castle, Severus has never wanted for anything more. His sitting room doubles as the study. Bookshelves line the far wall. He stands by hearth, hand on the arm of the old wingback chair; the upholstery is worn and faded. “I was under the impression that you had something of import to tell me,” Severus prompts when Potter does nothing more than stare about the room.

Potter’s got his robes off; his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and he stands, arms crossed, clutching his elbows so hard his knuckles are white. “I…yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. He pushes the fringe up and off his forehead.

It feels as though a stone has dropped into Severus’s stomach. The lightning bolt scar is angry and red, the skin inflamed and swollen for the first time since the war. Severus inhales sharply. He reaches an unsteady hand out to slowly brush his fingers against Potter’s forehead. His skin is warm and slicked with a sheen of sweat.

Potter shivers.

“When did this happen?” Severus asks.

“Two days ago.”

Severus’s mind is racing, though he refuses to allow it to settle on the most obvious, albeit unthinkable, reason as to why Potter’s scar is acting up after all these years. “Have you had any visions?”

Potter shakes his head. “No.”

“You’re certain?” Potter’s mind magic was always deplorable.

“Yes,” Potter says through gritted teeth. “Besides, my Occlumency is better than it was when I was a teenager.”

“One would hope so,” Severus says, “but I must ask once more. You are _sure_ there have been no visions or dreams, nothing that could potentially be the product of someone else’s mind?” Snape does not say the Dark Lord’s name. He won’t, not yet.

“There’s been nothing.” Potter sits down on the sofa and closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. “I honestly don’t know how I ever managed six years of school with a perpetual headache.”

Severus frowns. “You are in pain?”

Potter opens his eyes again and winces. “Constantly.”

Severus goes down the hall to his bedroom. He keeps a store of headache draughts in the vanity above the sink. The glass vial is warm to the touch and filled with a purple, jewel-toned liquid.

Potter smiles when Snape hands him the potion and downs it in one swallow. “Thanks.” After a moment, he sighs. “I forgot how good your pain potions were.”

Severus rolls his eyes and sits down beside Potter.

“What does it mean?” Potter says after a minute, “Because he can’t be back. He can’t be.”

Slowly, Severus rolls up his sleeve and holds out his arm. His skin is pale; the inky lines of the Mark are starkly black in contrast. But the snake is frozen, curled around the hideous skull that’s forever branded onto his skin. It looks like nothing more than an unfortunate tattoo.

“Oh, thank God,” Potter leans back against the sofa cushions.

“Yes,” Severus says, “but that doesn’t explain your scar.” He touches Potter again, fingers gentle as they sweep across his forehead. “And you haven’t felt anything since—”

“Not since that night,” Potter says, cutting him off. “That night I killed him.”

“Exams are over tomorrow,” Severus says, fingers still pressed against Potter’s skin. “Students board the train in three days. Will James and Albus be staying at Hogwarts for the holidays?”

It’s a simple question, but it looks as though it hits Potter clean in the gut. “I…no. Gin has the kids this year. We split holidays. They’ll be here for New Year’s though. Lily, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Severus says, and he is. “I imagine it must be very difficult for you.”

Potter nods. Then shrugs. “It’s better this way. Especially if…” But he stops, shakes his head, doesn’t say it.

Severus understands. “I do not think the Dark Lord has returned.”

Potter frowns, starts to say something, but Severus holds up a hand. “No. We will figure out what this is. It will be all right.” Although Severus’s voice is steady, he’s not sure he believes his own words.

***

The next three days pass in a blur. Severus administers the last of his exams, he records his grades, he gives four more pain potions to Potter, and he watches the children board the Hogwarts Express. Potter, allegedly, does not have any visions of blood or homicidal dark wizards or residual soul magic.

Only eight students remain for the holidays and, for the most part, the castle is quiet.

Potter tells Severus that he has re-read every source he has on Horcruxes and nothing explains what could be affecting his scar—apart from the creator of that scar himself. It’s clear that Potter is terrified that Voldemort has returned. Severus can’t blame him.

Severus is a superb researcher, and he knows more about Horcruxes than perhaps even Potter. After Albus found, was cursed by, and subsequently destroyed Marvolo Gaunt’s ring, he took it upon himself to learn everything he could about the magic involved. He knows that he should be relieved that his Mark has not changed. After all, the Dark Marks are intentional magic, intrinsically linked to the Dark Lord’s volition. If Severus’s arm were affected, there’d be no denying Voldemort’s return. He has difficulty finding much solace in that, however, considering what Potter’s scar has portended in the past.

They’re in the library. Madam Pince is visiting her sister in Germany so they have the place to themselves. Severus likes it here without Irma lurking about. Though a handful of years younger than Severus, she always has a way of making him feel like an errant schoolboy again whenever he’s spent too long in the Restricted Section.

Potter is seated across from him, poring over a text Severus knows he has practically memorised by now. His too pale skin is even paler than usual; the man hasn’t been sleeping. The lightning bolt scar is still swollen and bloodied, a disturbing reminder of things Severus had long hoped were only the stuff of nightmare now.

“It’s not here,” Potter says. He sounds as tired as he looks. “There’s nothing here.”

“No,” Severus says, “but that doesn’t mean there’s not an answer somewhere.” He closes the book in front of him and leans back, rubbing absently at his left forearm.

Potter’s eyes widen. “Your Mark, it’s not—”

“No,” Severus says quickly. “It’s fine.” And it is, but his skin itches and, when he closes his eyes, he can’t help but imagine that the snake is moving again. Severus tucks his hand in his lap. “It’s just an old habit.”

“You’re sure?”

Severus glares, and Potter has the grace to look appropriately ashamed. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes. They leave a pink indentation on the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says, “so what do we do now?”

***

Severus wakes to a shooting pain in his arm. It’s nauseating. He sits up and reaches for the bedside light. His chest aches and it’s all he can do to force himself to look down at his arm. But when he does, the snake is still motionless. He exhales, leans back against the pillows, and resists the urge to Floo Potter.

There is nothing wrong. The Dark Lord is dead and his Mark hasn’t moved in nineteen years.

He doesn’t Floo Potter. It was just a dream, and he is not ready to admit that he has grown rather fond of Potter’s company.

***

Severus is nervous, uncomfortable at the thought of what they’re about to do. He desperately wants a glass of wine or, better yet, whisky, but he can’t risk dulling his senses or his magic tonight. Instead, he puts the kettle on for tea and paces back and forth across his small sitting room. It’s cold despite the fire and heating charms. It’s always cold down here and especially so this time of year.

The kettle whistles. He rummages through the cupboard for the box of Earl Grey and pulls out two teacups. They were his mother’s. The white bone china is so thin it’s nearly translucent; it’s decorated with delicate sweeps of blue and gold. Severus sighs. His mother has been dead for nearly thirty years, but he still misses her every day.

He feels Potter before he hears him. The man puts off magic like electricity, silver-streaked, tainted by dark, and more powerful than Severus wants to acknowledge. His office is unwarded—Potter knows Severus is expecting him—and Severus opens the door to his rooms before he can knock.

Potter smiles. He looks exhausted. He looks fantastic, and Severus hates himself more than a little for thinking so. There was a time, months and months ago, when Severus thought—against all odds—that there might be something between them. But Potter was married and, despite how miserable his marriage was, Severus would never come between him and his wife.

Not that Potter ever would have cheated on Ginevra. The man is noble to a fault.

“Tea?” Severus offers when Potter steps inside, hands shoved into the pockets of faded blue jeans.

“I…er, yeah.” Potter sits on the edge of the sofa, head bowed. His fringe covers the scar, but Severus knows it hasn’t healed. It’s enough to make him sick to his stomach. His Mark is fine, but that doesn’t make this any less alarming.

Potter sips at his tea, cup clutched between his palms. He doesn’t look at Severus, but Severus can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. It’s nearly enough to overpower the magic that constantly surrounds him.

“We don’t have to do this,” Severus says. Then: “I won’t do this. Not if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No.” Potter sets his cup down on the coffee table. “I need to know. _We_ need to know.”

Severus nods, though he feels ill. It’s been years since he’s used Legilimency. He’s always Occluding. After nearly two decades of playing the spy, some habits are hard to break. But Legilimency, like Unforgivables, is something he could live without ever casting again. “It will feel…invasive.”

“I know, Snape. You’ve used Legilimency on me before, if you recall.”

Severus sits down beside him, hands falling between his knees. He can’t remember the last time he felt this tired. “Not like this,” he says. “Not without resistance.”

“Funny,” Potter says, “you always berated me for showing no signs of resistance during our sessions.”

Severus laughs, though there’s no humour there. “As rudimentary as your Occlumency defences were, they were still defences. This is different.”

Potter looks at him, green eyes bright behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. “I know, but it’s okay. I trust you.”

Severus nods, but he doesn’t take out his wand.

Potter must sense his reluctance, his discomfort because he stands and steps in front of Severus, so close he’s nearly touching him. “It’s okay,” he says again before leaning over to rest his hands on Severus’s knees. Severus feels the warmth of his palms through the fabric of his trousers. “I need you to do this.”

“I…all right.” Severus stands. His wand sparks against his palm. The spell slips easily off his tongue, intoxicating and repulsive all at once.

Potter’s memories spill, like water, like blood, across his field of vision. Some are muted and dull, clouded by time and magic. Others are brilliant and shining—bright flashes in Potter’s mind’s eye.

He sees Potter and the youngest Weasley boy wielding Gryffindor’s sword deep within the Forest of Dean. He feels the weight of the Horcrux, a dark stain against Potter’s skin, against his magic.

The images melt away and he’s in the Forbidden Forest with Lily and James; Black and the werewolf are there too. Potter walks a few paces in front, a small, smooth stone clutched in his hand.

Next he sees Ginevra Weasley—young and flushed and beautiful—her hands, her mouth on Potter's skin. They’re curled together in one of the old bedrooms at Grimmauld Place. Potter’s heart is beating so fast, so loudly Severus can hear it in his ears. Ginevra reaches out, places her palm on Potter’s chest. “Shush,” she says, though Potter hasn’t said anything. “It will be all right.” And Potter smiles, leans over to kiss her. Severus feels the arousal, the nervous excitement thrumming through his veins.

They’re in the Weasleys’ garden. Potter stands beneath a canopy of white roses, watching as Arthur Weasley walks his only daughter down the aisle. She’s resplendent in cream silk. In the background, a wedding march plays, but Potter can hardly hear a thing. He’s too focussed on the girl. Ginevra’s not wearing a veil. She’s braided a strand of flowers through her red hair; it cascades over pale shoulders in soft waves.

The scene rearranges itself into a room at St. Mungo’s. Ginevra holds a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Potter looks on, beaming.

It’s Christmastime. Three small children are on the floor in front of the fireplace, surrounded by presents. The tree is decked with enough fairy lights to illuminate the dungeons at Hogwarts. Lily looks on as her brothers bicker over who should go first. The two boys have their father’s dark hair. The girl’s is red, like her mother’s, like her namesake’s.

Then there are the images of him. Potter in Severus’s lab, laughing at something Severus has said, watching his fingers, his hands as he prepares the base for a potion. They’re sipping whisky in Severus’s office. Potter sitting too close, staying too late for there not to be some implication there.

And there are flashes of Severus’s skin, his mouth, while Potter lies in bed at night. Severus pushes past these memories before he has time to think about what they mean.

He pushes deeper, focussing on the scar, looking for any trace of the Lord he served a lifetime ago, but there is nothing. Nothing but Potter and his family that has fallen apart.

Legilimency without resistance is addictive and Severus knows he could get lost in the sensation of it, in the wash of Potter’s thoughts, his magic, as the man opens his mind to him. Severus gathers his concentration and focus as he presses in, harder still. More memories rush to the surface, fluttering wildly across his field of vision, but there is nothing there.

Severus withdraws and lowers his wand. Magic, spiked with adrenaline now, is thrumming through his blood. He sits down on the sofa and takes a deep breath, tries to calm the pounding of his heart. The tips of his fingers tingle and his chest feels tight. Potter is all around him. He’s in his head and in his lungs and in the remnants of the spell that tugs at Severus’s spine. It’s overwhelming.

He can only imagine how Potter must feel.

The man is hunched over, palms pressed to the coffee table, breathing heavily. He stands, wiping a hand across his face. His skin is pink and slicked with sweat. The scar is a vivid red. “So,” he says, though it’s more of a gasp. “Did you see anything? Was there anything there?”

“No, there was nothing.” Severus leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “Nothing there but you.”

Potter sits down beside him, close but not touching. Still, Severus can feel the warmth of his body against his.

“Well, that’s a relief, I guess.”

“Yes,” Severus says slowly, “but it still doesn’t explain what’s wrong, what’s affecting your scar.”

“What else can it be?”

“I don’t know.” Severus summons the bottle of whisky and pours two glasses. The alcohol burns his throat, his stomach, but it steadies his hands and calms his nerves.

Potter twists his glass between his hands and does not drink. “I’m sorry you know. I’m sure it made you uncomfortable.”  
  
Severus frowns. He has no idea what the man’s on about. “What?”

“That I wanted you. I apologise. It was inappropriate.”  
  
Of all the things Potter could have said, Severus is certain he wasn’t expecting that. “I wanted you, too.” The words are out before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, but he’s so startled, so caught off guard, that he can’t help it.

“I…okay,” Potter says in response. There is no revulsion there, no indictment, no surprise. Just a small smile as he sets his glass down and leans back against the sofa cushions. “Okay.”

***

“I could use a break,” Potter says, closing the book in front of him and pushing it to the side. “Hog’s Head?”

Severus looks at his watch. It’s half past eleven. He should say no. It’s late. He should go back to his rooms and go to sleep. But Potter’s smile is soft and open and Severus could really use a drink. “All right.”

Potter beams.

The walk to Hogsmeade is pleasant, if cold. The night air is crisp and cool, and a fresh layer of snow covers the ground. It crunches under their feet as they walk across the castle grounds towards the village.

Potter’s got his hands in his pockets and his head down, eyes trained on the path in front of him, but he keeps pace with Severus’s longer strides as they walk and occasionally bumps his shoulder with his. Severus thinks he can feel the warmth of the man’s skin even though layers of clothing.

Hogsmeade is busy. The main street is hung with holiday lights and lined with Christmas trees. Music and laughter spill out of the Three Broomsticks as they walk past. Witches and wizards dressed in cloaks and scarves stand around outside, drinks and cigarettes in their hands, faces pinked with cold and alcohol.

Severus has never cared for Christmas. His father always spent the holidays drunk and, though his mother tried her best, there was only so much she could do.

Potter is scowling by the time they reach the Hog’s Head. Luckily, though, Aberforth would rather be cursed before playing any Christmas music in his establishment, and the bar is completely devoid of festivities and holiday cheer. It’s lovely. Potter relaxes a bit as they take the two seats at the end of the bar. Still, his shoulders are hunched, jaw stiff as Aberforth grunts out a greeting and reaches for the bottle of whisky.

Severus nods and the bartender pours a generous serving into two glasses.

“What brings you idiots out of the castle tonight?”

“Alcohol,” Potter says.

Aberforth actually smiles. “Good thinking, that.” He moves down the bar to help another customer, and Potter takes a long swig of his drink. Severus watches his mouth, his throat as he swallows.

The man looks up and notices him watching. Severus feels his skin heat, but Potter only smiles, sets his glass down again. “Do you always stay at Hogwarts over the holidays?” he asks, and Severus frowns.

“Where else would I go?”

“I’m not sure.” Potter shrugs. “Home?”

When he was a student, Severus spent Christmases at Spinner’s End. But then his mother died and it was never the same. During the war, he always had some assignment or another to perform. When he wasn’t playing the Dark Lord’s warden, Albus or the Order had jobs for him to complete. Now, he has no obligations but his own, and his father’s house holds too many memories. He can tolerate it during the summer when the days are long and he can spend his time outside in his mother’s gardens. But during the winter months, the house is too cold, too draughty, too empty, and it makes him think of things he has long wanted to forget.

“When I was a student,” Potter says, “Christmas at Hogwarts was my favourite time of year. I’d never had a real home before, and Hogwarts was everything I’d ever imagined a home and family to be.” He takes another sip of his drink. Ice clinks against the side of the glass when he sets it down again. “But now—”

“But now you know what it’s like to have…” Severus doesn’t say a ‘real’ family because Hogwarts has been that much and more for him and Potter both “…a family of your own.”

Potter looks at him, green eyes dark in the flickering light of the bar. “Yes.”

They finish their drinks and Aberforth pours another round. Severus is intensely aware of the man beside him. Of the way his fingers curl around his glass, the way his lips are wet with whisky when he pulls his glass away. Severus can smell the scent of his soap, his aftershave, and it makes him want to know what Potter’s skin would taste like. He exhales and turns away.

“I miss my kids,” Potter says after a few minutes. He’s staring down into his drink.

“James and Albus have been gone for less than a week,” Severus says slowly, carefully. “They will be back at the castle for New Year’s with your daughter.”

“I know,” Potter says moodily, heel kicking at the rung of his barstool.

“And, aside from Lily, you see your children far more often than Ginevra does.” During the school year, Potter sees his sons every day, and he knows the girl visits the castle one weekend every month. As far as custody arrangements go, it strikes Severus as a good one.

Potter frowns but does not disagree.

Severus sips his drink. His stomach is warm with alcohol now; his head swims pleasantly.

“It’s not the same, though,” the man says, “it’s Christmas.”

Severus doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he drains his glass and signals for another. Potter downs his quickly and nods when Aberforth holds up the bottle.

“I was thinking,” Potter says, tracing a line of condensation down the side of his glass, “all spells—all magic for that matter—leave residue.”

“Yes…”

“I’ve performed every approved detection spell I know—and quite a few unapproved ones too, at least those I’m comfortable performing on myself, that is.”

“Naturally.”

“There’s nothing there.”

Severus nods. That revelation is nothing new. After all, between the Legilimency and the research and his own detection spells, they should have found _something_ , if there was even a trace of the Dark Lord’s magic left in Potter’s scar, his soul.

“Well, what if it’s just an echo?”

Severus frowns. Sometimes magic—if it’s strong enough—leaves echoes, ripples in the places it’s been. It’s not uncommon to get feedback from curses and dark spells. “It’s possible,” he says, but he’s not convinced. “But why now? Why after all these years?” He slides his glass back and forth between his hands. It leaves a wet steak on the bar top. “Has your scar bothered you before, since you killed him?”

“No. Not once.”

“Then we cannot assume it is something as…innocuous as an echo.”

“I know,” Potter says after several moments. “I know.”

***

Hogsmeade becomes a regular thing. The next night and then the next find Potter at his door after dinner and together they walk the short way through the cold to the village.

Potter looks exhausted and miserable. His skin is too pale and the circles under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. It’s clear he’s not sleeping, though whether it’s from the pain of his scar, depression at being away from his family, or some combination of both, Severus isn’t sure. But the man smiles when Severus orders his drink for him, and something in the curve of his mouth, the twist of his lips, twines like warmth in Severus’s stomach.

Severus looks away, but still he can feel the weight of Potter’s gaze on him. It rests squarely between his shoulder blades and against the small of his back. It makes his skin feel too hot, too tight.

“Have you been dreaming?” Severus asks because, as much as he needs to believe that it has nothing to do with the Dark Lord, Potter’s scar is still angry and blood red, and nothing they’ve found can explain why.  
  
“What? Oh, no. I haven’t been.”

“And your scar?” Snape wants to reach out, to brush the fringe off his forehead and touch Potter’s skin, but he doesn’t. He takes a sip of his drink instead.

“It’s fine,” Potter says. “I mean, it still hurts all the time, but your pain potions are amazing and I’m getting better at ignoring it now.”

Severus nods. He’s not sure what else to say. He enjoys Potter’s company more than he’s willing to admit, but the uncertainty, the concern over what’s affecting Potter’s scar is a constant, discomforting presence looming over their time together.

“Gin’s seeing someone,” Potter says. He’s not looking at Severus; he’s staring at the wall in front of him. Dusty bottles line row upon row of shelves above the bar.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Potter takes a sip of his drink. “Michael Corner. Not sure if you remember him. Ravenclaw. My year.”

“Yes.” As far as Severus recalls, Mr. Corner was an intelligent if unremarkable student.

“They work together. Well, he’s in the marketing division for the Harpies. I always thought there might be something between them and now…” He shrugs.

Severus frowns. “Do you believe your ex-wife was unfaithful to you?” The previous year, while Potter's marriage was falling apart, the man spent a lot of time in Severus’s office, his lab, his rooms. Never once, however, did he mention fears that his wife was sleeping with another man.

“No,” Potter says. Then, more forcefully, “No, she wasn’t. She wouldn't do that.” Potter laughs but there’s no humour there. “Our marriage was shit, Snape, but those vows we took were important.”

Severus nods. He knows this. In the year leading up to Potter’s divorce, half of Wizarding Britain knew his marriage was in shambles. The story was splashed across _The Prophet_ for months. Severus knows the publicity, the notoriety was hard on him. He will, likely, never understand Potter’s reasoning for remaining with his wife long after it was clear their marriage was over. Had Ginevra not forced his hand, Severus thinks Potter might have remained miserable indefinitely.

“I knew she would eventually find someone else,” Potter continues, voice low, “but I didn’t realise it would feel like this.”

Severus signals to Aberforth for another drink because he doesn’t know what else to say and, although he’s already rather drunk, he thinks, perhaps, that’s for the best.

Potter shakes his head. “In the end, I guess Michael was just one more reason why Gin asked for the divorce.”

“You were not happy,” Severus says, carefully, but he knows it’s the truth.

“No,” Potter agrees, and it sounds like it costs him something to do so. “But I wanted to be.”

Severus does not say it was for the best, but he does reach out and place his hand on the small of Potter's back. When the man does not flinch, does not pull away, he leaves it there for a moment, feels the rough wool of his jumper under his fingertips.

“Gin always knew I also preferred men,” Potter says after a moment.

“Oh?” Severus says, and he can’t help the surprise that colours his voice.

He nods. “I think it turned her on, at first, but after a while it made her jealous. Women she could handle.” He smiles but it does not reach his eyes. “She knew I’d always pick her. But men…” He shakes his head. “I think she was always a little scared I’d meet someone and she wouldn’t be able to compete with that.”

Severus nods again. He understands the sentiment.

“I never cheated on my wife,” Potter adds quickly.

“Of course you didn’t.” After all, the thought is truly absurd.

“You sound so certain,” Potter says, and there is something in his voice that Severus can’t read.

He falters. “I only thought…” but Severus stops, realising his error.

But Potter reaches out a hand, slides his thumb against Severus’s knuckles. The man’s expression is unnerving. “You thought that—were I going to cheat on Gin—I would have done so with you. But I didn’t, so you assumed I hadn’t ever.”

“I…no,” Severus says. “That’s not what I meant. I would never presume…” He feels distinctly uncomfortable, and he’s not used to the feeling. “I apologise. I did not intend to imply that you, that I—”

“It’s okay,” Potter says, cutting him off. “If I had—if I’d been with anyone else—it would have been with you.”

Severus sips his drink and refuses to acknowledge that the warmth coiling in his stomach has nothing to do with the alcohol in his system.  
  
“You wanted me.” Potter’s looking at him, and his eyes are so dark, so intense that Severus feels exposed.

“No.”

“Come on, Snape,” he says, “I may still be shit at Legilimency, but I can read you fairly well. And I know you did. In fact,” he pauses, traces his thumb around the lip of his glass, “I think you still do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Severus says quickly. They shouldn’t be having this conversation. Severus doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t pick up men in bars. He doesn’t indulge his feelings, and he certainly doesn’t end up with men like Harry bloody Potter. “Things change.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say because Potter smiles, a blinding flash of white teeth. “You're right. Things do change. I’m not married anymore, for one. Haven’t been in quite some time. And this time, if I touch you, it won’t be cheating.”

***

Christmas morning dawns cold and bright. Severus knows there will be celebrating in the Great Hall. The elves will outdo themselves with holiday breakfast and the few students staying at the castle will be eagerly awaiting presents by Owl Post.

Severus isn’t feeling particularly festive this morning, though. They are no closer to finding an answer and, if Potter’s declining health weren’t reason enough for concern, the very real possibility that there is still dark magic in the scar is weighing more heavily on Severus each passing day.

For this reason, he has agreed to cast the spell on Potter this afternoon.

He spends the morning collecting ingredients by the lake. There are some plants, some roots that can only be harvested in wintertime from beneath the fresh snow. By noontime, his fingers are numb and his back aches, so he returns to his rooms for tea. He doesn’t eat. The very thought makes his stomach churn.

Instead, he sits by the fire, rereads the same section in an old spell book for the dozenth time, and tries not to think about the fact that what Potter has consented to is akin to rape.

***

They’re in Severus’s lab. Severus doesn’t want to admit it, but he likes Potter down here. Likes having him in his space. Likes the sound of his voice and the press of his magic filling the dark corners of the room. But now, his stomach is in knots.

Potter sits on the edge of the lab table, legs dangling over the side, watching him. “Do you think this will work?”

“I’m not sure.” Severus doesn’t look up. He’s busy measuring the dried henbane. It’s important to be precise. “It should. But, then again, the Legilimency should have worked as well.”  
  
“Right,” Potter says.

Severus adds the ingredients to the cauldron and waits for it to begin bubbling. Then he stirs counter clockwise for exactly eighteen seconds before covering the potion. Steam collects in droplets on the underside of the glass lid.

“Is it done?” Potter slides off the lab table to stand beside Severus. He stretches, jumper riding up to reveal a pale swath of skin. Severus looks away.

“Nearly.” Severus takes a small silver bowl from the cupboard and removes the lid from the cauldron again. He touches his wand to the surface of the potion and murmurs an incantation; the liquid pulses slightly as his magic sparks against it. Carefully, he measures a portion into the bowl. It looks like ink and shimmers slightly as Severus whispers another spell. The magic is dark. It slips across his skin and tugs at his spine in a way that is disconcertingly, unsettlingly familiar.

He pours the black liquid into a vial and hands it to Potter. “Merry Christmas.”

The man actually smiles, holding it up to the light as though trying to discern its taste by appearance alone. “And a happy New Year.”

“It will be...unpleasant,” Severus warns.

Potter shrugs. “I can handle unpleasant.”

“Undoubtedly.”

The man downs the contents of the vial in one go before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ugh, you weren’t joking.” He looks as though he might gag. Or vomit.

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Severus says and Potter does. His pupils are already dilated, his pale skin flushed, and he’s breathing heavily.

“I understand why this potion is illegal,” he says.

“Yes, but it’s not for the physical effects—however deleterious they might be.”

“Right, right. It’s the effects it will have on my magic. Though,” Potter curls his lip, “the amount of henbane you put in there could kill a small hippogriff.”

Severus cannot disagree.

“Well,” Potter says, “let’s get on with it, then.”

“Are you certain?” Severus asks because he has to be sure. He presses a palm to Potter’s forehead; the man’s burning up.

Potter looks at him. The flickering light in the room reflects off his glasses. “Yes.”

Severus takes a deep breath and raises his wand. “It will feel like you can't breathe,” he cautions. “Your body will not know how to respond to the absence of magic. I'll be quick.”

Potter nods. “I know.”

The potion binds magic, and not in the way one might bind a small child’s who has yet to come into his or her control. Rather, with a simple incantation, Severus is able to completely strip Potter of his power. It’s intoxicating and sickening all at once. He feels the rush of the man’s magic, the crackle of it in the air around him, and has to close his eyes for a moment to ground himself. He thinks he might be ill. But he has to work quickly or the damage could be irreparable.

Although Potter knew what to expect, he still looks like he’s been punched in the gut. For all intents and purposes, this is much worse.

Severus waves his wand in an intricate loop. A thin stream of blue and silver characters coalesces in the air above Potter’s head. They shimmer briefly, and disappear.

Severus exhales and runs the test one more time.

***

Afterwards, Potter sits on the worn sofa in the corner of Severus’s lab clutching a cup of tea. His breathing is no longer laboured, but his hair is damp with sweat, and his skin a sickly grey. “Well?” he asks, voice raspy and strained. “Anything?”

“No, nothing. I did not detect a single trace of magic.”

Potter exhales loudly. “And you’re certain you only stripped away mine?”

“Despite its illegality,” Severus says, “the spell is contingent on consent. Since the Dark Lord did not willingly ingest the potion, his magic would not have been affected. If any residual traces remained, I would have been able to see them.”

“Okay,” Potter says simply, but he looks like he's about to be sick.

“I think you should see Poppy.”

“Nah, I'll be all right.”

Severus frowns. “You do realise that the potion you ingested contained belladonna, jimsonweed, and henbane…”

“All poisons in their own right,” Potter finishes for him, and Severus nods. At one point he would have been impressed with the man’s knowledge, but this Potter is not the same recalcitrant student he once knew. This is a different Potter. Severus has known that for quite some time and, even here, sitting huddled on the sofa and looking like he might very well pass out, Severus can see the broad line of his shoulders, can feel the strength of his magic once again coursing beneath his skin.

The man looks nothing like the boy he used to be.

“Yes, so although not exactly fatal, one could still assume it’s not good for your system.”

“I’ll be all right,” he says again, and this time he smiles at Severus. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Thank you. I know you didn’t want to cast that spell, but it worked. And I needed to know.”

***

Potter is drunk.

Severus understands. He might be a bit drunk, too.

Potter stumbles but doesn’t fall as they leave Aberforth’s bar. Severus reaches out, catches him with an arm about the waist and, for the rest of the walk back to Hogwarts, he is warm from the press of Potter’s body at his side.

When they reach the castle, Severus doesn’t question it as Potter follows him down to the dungeons, rather than heading up to his tower room. And then, when they get to Severus’s door, Severus isn’t surprised when he takes his hand in his.

“Is this okay?” Potter asks, as the door shuts behind them. Potter stands, back against the wall and slowly, carefully brings Severus’s hand to his face. Severus runs his fingers down Potter’s cheek, feels the stubble under his touch, the warmth of his skin against his fingertips.

“Yes,” Severus says. Potter is not someone he would have ever expected to want but he does. He has now for quite some time, and it feels right to lean in and kiss him.

Potter’s lips are dry and soft as he opens his mouth against Severus’s. The man tastes like whisky and magic. Severus’s hand falls to the small of Potter’s back and Potter steps forward to press his body against his.

“My scar doesn’t hurt as much when I’m with you,” Potter says, words breathless and slurred.

“You’re drunk.”

Potter doesn’t disagree. “I’m also distracted, but it’s nice not to think about it for a while.”

Severus steps back, brushes his fingers against Potter’s forehead. The man is right. The scar, while still red, is not nearly so swollen, so inflamed as it’s been recently. But Severus doesn’t have time to consider what it means because Potter is kissing him again, warm slow slide of lips and tongue.

Severus wants to touch him. He wants to know what that smooth skin would feel like against his fingertips, to see him spread out beneath him on his bed.

Potter shifts against him and groans. Severus feels the hardness of the man’s erection against his thigh. Before he can stop himself, he reaches down, presses his palm to his prick, feels the size and shape of it against his hand.

“Oh yeah, touch me.” His breath is warm against Severus’s cheek, and his hands clutch at Severus’s shoulders as he rocks forward into the press of his palm. “Fuck…” Potter is already trembling against him. “That’s, oh God, that’s…just don’t stop,” he gasps.

As though Severus could.

Severus’s own cock is so hard it hurts, and he thinks he might come just from rubbing Potter off, from the feeling of him shaking against him.

“Fuck,” Potter says again, voice rough, pupils blown. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s rather the point,” Severus says, embarrassed to hear how wrecked his own voice sounds. He moves his hand faster, pressing harder, and Potter cries out, hips jerking. Severus can feel wetness seeping through the fabric of his trousers.

“Wow, that was…” Potter clings to him for a moment, body warm and languid, before taking a step away, shaking his head. His skin is flushed a pretty pink, his fringe covers the scar. He looks gorgeous. “Wow,” he says again, “that was embarrassing. I haven’t come like that in years.” Something about his expression unsettles Severus. “Sorry about that.”

Severus doesn’t stay how much he liked it, how aroused it made him. Instead he says, “Come to bed with me.” Once he’s uttered the words he thinks, perhaps, he should regret them, but he doesn’t. He can count the number of people he’s slept with on one hand. It’s been years since he’s taken anyone to his bed, but he wants Potter more than he can ever remember wanting anyone.

But Potter stiffens. “I’m sorry, Snape, but I can’t.” He looks down, grimacing, and waves a hand, casts a wordless drying spell. The stain on the front of his trousers disappears. “I’m not ready. This was a mistake.”

The words hit Severus like Bludgers, though, really, they shouldn’t. He had no right to expect anything. To think that he actually had a chance with Potter.

He stands in the office for a long time after the man is gone.

Then he sits on his sofa, downs another glass of whisky, and thinks it might be better if he’d never gotten involved with Potter at all.

***

That night, once again, Severus dreams that his Mark is on fire. He wakes with a start, left forearm throbbing. He reaches for his wand with shaking fingers. Rationally, he knows everything is fine, but it’s still all he can do to bring himself to look at his arm. When he does, though, the serpent is still, an inky arabesque forever frozen around that ghastly skull.

Severus takes a deep breath and tries to calm the pounding of his heart. His arm aches and he knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep, so he gets out of bed and goes to his desk. He’s read everything there is to read on Horcruxes, and nothing short of the Horcrux’s creator should be able to affect the scar.

Severus will not believe that Voldemort has returned, yet nothing else explains what has happened to Potter. The magic imbued there thirty-seven years ago was too strong, too dark to be triggered haphazardly. Something has to be at cause. Severus just hasn’t found it yet, and now he desperately needs to because he’s not sure how much more of Potter’s company he can stand.

***

Potter is not at breakfast the following morning and Severus spends lunch in his lab. He’s neglected his preparations for the new semester. He still needs to prepare the bases for Poppy’s medical potions and he has yet to replenish his own stores.

Brewing calms his nerves and helps clear his head. He can focus on the texture of the lavender as he strips it from the stems, on the movement of his knife as he cuts thin strips of asphodel for Dreamless Sleep. His fingers move in practised motions over the pale roots and for a moment he doesn’t think about Dark Lords or Horcruxes or relationships that failed before they ever began.

Potter does appear at the Great Hall for dinner. Everyone is already seated at the large table faculty and students, alike, share over the holidays. He takes the only empty seat at the end of the table opposite Severus, but he doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Harry,” Minerva says, concern colouring her voice, “are you feeling all right? You don’t look well.”

Severus looks at him. He looks worse than he has in days. His eyes are red-rimmed and his too-pale skin is an ashen grey. He looks dreadful and Severus knows, were he to push back the fringe covering the scar, it would be bloodied and raw.

Minerva doesn't know.

Severus suggested telling the headmistress when their initial detection spells found nothing, but Potter refused. At the end of the war, very few people were told about the Horcruxes. It was thought best to keep the information private. After all, the magic itself was some of the darkest in existence and the fact that Potter had harboured a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul for nearly his entire life was not something the general public needed to be made aware of.

Minerva knew, but even she was spared some details and Potter did not feel it necessary or beneficial to worry her now.

Severus scowls. For all the man used to rant and rave about Albus’s penchant for concealing vital information, he keeps secrets with the best of them.

“It’s just a touch of a cold,” Potter says. He’s pushing the mashed potatoes around on his plate and looking particularly pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” Minerva says, though she doesn’t look like she really believes him. “Perhaps you should see Poppy.”

“Yeah, I think I'll do that,” Potter says without meeting her eyes.

“And your children will be arriving at the end of the week. I’m sure that will lift your spirits.” Severus can’t help but smile into his tea. Minerva has always been incredibly perceptive.

Potter nods and spears a piece of broccoli with his fork, but he doesn’t eat it.

There are dark circles under Potter’s eyes and he looks like exhaustion and guilt and misery. It reminds Severus so much of himself that it hurts. Except, that recently, despite everything, he hasn’t felt like that at all.

Dinner passes; Potter doesn’t say a single word to Severus, and though he can’t say he’s surprised, the disregard still cuts, leaves Severus feeling broken and hollowed out.

***

The rest of the week passes slowly. Severus reads. He prepares his classroom, his lab for the start of term. He finishes the bases for Poppy’s potions, and he brews more headache draught for Potter.

He sees the man at mealtime and pretends like it doesn’t hurt when Potter says nothing to him at all.

***

It’s nearly midnight when Severus remembers something he read years ago.

The halls are deserted as he makes his way to Potter’s room. The man’s awake. A thin slip of light spills from beneath his door. Severus knocks and hears Potter moving around inside, then Potter is standing there in the open doorway. He’s dressed in loose khaki trousers and a faded Manchester United t-shirt. His hair is unwashed, his pale skin dull. He looks positively horrid.

“Did you come to ring in the New Year, Snape?” he says. “Because I would have Floo'd if I were having a party.” Potter’s lips twist cruelly, but his voice is flat, entirely devoid of emotion.

Severus frowns. He’d completely forgotten that it was New Year’s Eve. “I know what’s affecting your scar.”

Potter’s eyes widen in surprise. “Come inside.”

The sitting room is too warm. Severus isn’t wearing his robes, but it’s still uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” Potter says, sitting down on the sofa. There’s a blanket bunched there. It looks as though he’s been curled in it. “I’ve just been so cold.”

Severus nods. The man’s clearly feverish.

“So, my scar?”

“I was thinking about what you said about echoes and triggers.”

But Potter is already shaking his head. Severus can see the disappointment on his face. “No. It’s been too long. There’s no reason for it to be bothering me now, not after all this time.”

“But there is,” Severus says. “Think about the way curses work. They are forever, intrinsically tied to the nature of their casting.”

“Right…” Potter says, “and that would be a fucking Horcrux cast by Voldemort. And since we’ve established that it’s been too long for any echoes to be affecting the scar to this magnitude, it had to have been triggered.” He takes a breath; he sounds half frantic. “And that leaves us with Voldemort and his fucking magic.”

“But it’s still a curse scar,” Severus says softly. “Created by an Avada Kedavra and signifier of a Horcrux, yes. But those are not the only circumstances surrounding the casting, and I don’t think the creator of that Horcrux is the only thing that can irritate your scar. After all, that scar is still very much a part of you.”

Potter frowns, obviously unsure of what Severus is getting at.

“The scar was created upon your parents’ death. Before it marked the Dark Lord’s seventh Horcrux, it marked the loss of your parents, your family.” Severus sits down beside Potter. He does not touch him, but he fixes his gaze on his forehead. “And as such,” he continues, “I believe the only thing it can be affected by, in addition to Voldemort himself, is family.”

Potter catches on more quickly than Severus expects.

“My family... You mean this entire thing is happening because I miss my family?” There’s a note of disbelief there and Severus understands, but it makes sense.

“Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best one. You, better than anyone perhaps, know the effect sacrifice and love can have on even the most powerful magic.”

“So it _is_ residual magic.”

Severus nods. “Just not the kind we had initially feared.”

“And my kids will be here tomorrow.”

“So we will be able to test our hypothesis.”

For the first time in days, Potter smiles, but then he looks at Severus and something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. His brow furrows and he reaches up to trace the lightning bolt on his forehead. “When I’m with you, I feel better.”

Severus does not have time to make sense of the words because Potter continues, saying, “Stay with me tonight.”

Of all the things he thought Potter might say, he hadn’t expected that. “I...no, I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Just to sleep, Snape. That’s really all I'm good for right now.” He bows his head, fringe covering the scar and falling into his eyes. “But I think...I think I need this. There’s something between us. I’m not sure what it is, but I know that I don’t feel like death warmed over when I’m with you and I...I just need to sleep.”

Severus should say no—he really should—but there’s an edge of desperation in Potter’s voice that cracks his resolve. “Just to sleep.”

Potter nods, relief flooding his expression. “Just to sleep.” And Severus follows him down the hallway to his bedroom.

The lights are already off. Severus sits down on the end of the bed and bends to take his shoes, his socks off. Potter pulls down his trousers, kicks them off and to the side, and climbs into bed in just his t-shirt and pants. Severus leaves his slacks and shirt on and lies down stiffly beside Potter.

“'M so cold,” the man says, scooting closer to Severus. Severus is warm, and Potter’s putting heat off like a furnace, his skin damp and feverish, but he relaxes as Potter curls against him, back pressed to his chest, and lets his arm fall to rest on the man’s stomach.

Potter sighs and is asleep within minutes.

Severus listens to the sound of his breathing for a long time and thinks, perhaps, he could get used to this.

***

He wakes to pale sunlight steaming through the window and Potter sprawled on top of him. His mouth is pressed to Severus’s neck, his lips a wet ring against Severus’s skin.

Severus shifts, pulling his arm from beneath the man’s body. He cards his fingers through Potter’s hair, then brushes the fringe back from his forehead. The scar is noticeably improved. While the lightning bolt is still a deep red, the surrounding skin is once again smooth and pale.

Potter opens his eyes, owlish without his glasses, and blinks. Severus freezes, uncomfortable now that he’s been caught touching the man, but Potter only smiles. “It’s nice,” he mumbles, voice slurred with sleep, “having you here.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Potter stretches, and rolls over further on top of Severus. “Great, actually. I can’t remember the last time my head didn’t hurt.” He leans down, brushes his nose against Severus’s. “Is this okay?” he asks, pressing his lips to the corner of Severus’s mouth.

“I...yes.”

“Good.” He feels Potter smile against him and then he’s kissing him, soft and languid and slow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to bed with you the other night,” he says. “I wanted to but I wasn’t ready. I think I’m ready now, though, if you still want to.”

Severus does.

“Are you sure?” he asks because he wants Potter more than he thinks he’s ever wanted anything, but he can’t do this, can’t make himself vulnerable, can’t leave himself open to being hurt unless the man is sure.

“Yes,” Potter breathes against his mouth. “Yes. Stay with me.”

Severus stays and holds him. Then he pulls off his t-shirt and presses kisses down his chest, his hips, his thighs, back up to his neck, touches him like he needs to be held still, and he does. Or Severus does. He’s not really sure any more.

“Please,” Potter says, eyes closed, fingers clutching at Severus’s shoulders so hard they’ll probably leave bruises.

Severus’s heart is starting to race loud enough that he can’t ignore it anymore. He takes a deep breath and presses his mouth back to Potter’s skin. The man tastes like sunlight, warmth, and magic.

“Yeah, that’s nice, isn’t it?” Potter says, arching up into his touch. His voice is rough with arousal now. “Okay, yeah, come on. I want to. Do you want to? I want to.”

“Yes.” He lets Potter unbutton his shirt, push it off his shoulders and toss it off the bed. Then cool fingers are fumbling with his fly, pulling his zipper down and tugging his slacks over his hips and down his thighs. Severus would be embarrassed by how hard he is, except for Potter’s prick is already leaking. There’s a damp stain on the front of his pants, and it’s all Severus can do not to lean down and trace it with his tongue.

But Potter is wriggling out of his pants and then they are naked in bed together, and Severus has to bite his lip, has to close his eyes to keep from falling apart.

Potter leans over, rummages around in the bedside cabinet for a vial of lubricant. “Here,” he says, handing it to Severus. “Get me ready.”

Severus’s fingers shake as he pours the oil into his palm. Some drips onto the sheets, but Potter lies back, cants his hips, lets his legs fall open.

He is tight as Severus slips one finger inside and then two. He groans as Severus twists his wrist, stretches him open. “God yes, God yes, please more…” Potter is rambling, and he’s already trembling, so Severus slicks himself with the remnants of oil and pushes up on his hands to rub the head of his cock into the slick mess he’s made of Potter’s hole.

Severus wants him so badly it’s making him shake. Potter looks so good beneath him he can hardly bear it, and he knows for certain now that this is about more than just about sex.

He pushes in slowly, carefully, and forces himself to hold still with his hips flush to Potter’s, waiting for him to adjust. Then Potter rolls his hips once, rocking up into him and says, “Okay, I’m ready now.”

Severus thrusts into him in short, steady strokes, and Potter cries out, throws an arm up against the headboard. Severus reaches down between them to curl a hand around Potter’s cock.

“Fuck, Snape, harder. Yes, touch me. Make me come.” The words drip from Potter’s mouth like honey, make Severus harder than he ever thought possible.

He already feels the pleasure building, coiling in his spine. He presses his mouth to Potter’s as the man jerks his hips up into his. It’s nearly too much.

“Can I come inside you?” Severus asks, has to ask, because they haven’t talked about it, haven’t talked about anything really. And although it’s safe, Potter was raised by Muggles and Severus knows protection is not something to take for granted.

“God yes, _yes,_ ” Potter gasps, voice strained. “Just...fuck…”

And Severus comes with Potter’s arms around his neck and his tongue in his mouth, Potter tight and pulsing around him because he’s shaking through his own orgasm, come spilling over the hand Severus has around his cock and smearing between their stomachs.

Severus pulls out, shaky and lightheaded and perfectly content. He lies beside Potter, their shoulders touching, sweat and come cooling on their skin, and Potter reaches out, curls a hand around his.

“When does the train arrive?” Potter asks, turning towards Severus, breath warm against the side of his neck.

“Not for another three hours.”

“Good.” Potter sighs and stretches before flopping about, presumably to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep for a bit longer. You wore me out.”

“All right.” Severus thinks he could sleep for a week.

“Oh, and Severus,” Potter says, stretching up to press a kiss to his cheek. “That was fantastic.”

***

Severus finds himself waiting with Potter at Hogsmeade Station. The Hogwarts Express arrives on schedule, and though the majority of the students will return in a week’s time for start of term, there are several children in addition to Potter’s three that have come back to the castle early.

James barges off the train in typically Gryffindor fashion. Severus can’t help but roll his eyes as he practically careens to the end of the platform to where they are standing. Albus follows at a far more civilised pace. He’s charmed his luggage to trail behind him and is holding his sister’s hand.

“Hi, Dad,” James says, skidding to a stop. He looks at Severus, nose curling in distaste. “What’s he doing here?”

“James,” Potter says with a glare, but Severus only rolls his eyes.

“Hullo, Professor,” Albus says cheerfully. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Potter. And Ms. Potter,” he says, turning to the girl, but she only ducks her head and takes a step behind her brother.

Years ago, Severus would have had a conniption at the thought of a Potter in his house, but Albus Severus, despite his unfortunate moniker, has proven to be an intelligent and industrious Slytherin.

“I thought we’d have lunch in the village before heading back to the castle,” Potter says and Albus nods enthusiastically.

James shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

“He had one too many chocolate frogs on the train,” Albus says in a stage whisper, and James scowls.

“Lunch is fine,” the boy says sullenly, “but I still want to know what _he’s_ doing here.”

Potter glares again and starts to say something, but Severus puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “I haven’t eaten this afternoon and, as it turns out, I happen to enjoy the company of three out of four Potters, so I decided to accompany you.”

James’s mouth opens in surprise; the effect is quite comical. Albus laughs and even Lily can’t help but giggle. James looks to his father, no doubt hoping he’ll come to his rescue, say something in objection, but it’s all Potter can do to keep a straight face. James scowls and scuffs the toe of his shoe against the ground, but he doesn’t say anything else as they head towards the village.

Potter smiles fondly as his children traipse on ahead of them, boots crunching over packed snow. Then he puts his arm around Severus’s waist and together they follow them into Hogsmeade.

-The End-

  



End file.
